Page 116 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

That smile widened, tattooed knuckles flexing. “And Aevollon. The Fate of Artistry and Trickery.”

Triumph lifted Emmeline’s chin.

Desmond was aligned to the two patron Fates of Alvan. The two who had sent their Storytellers to speak with her, the two who had grudges against Anphrosia. It was the last piece she’d needed to feel confident accusing him, given to her in the letter from the War Master of Alvan. Desmond Alvanti’s name at the top of the list of Starsearchers aligned to the Fates.

It was damning evidence.

But…Roremar didn’t react. She found his steel-grey eyes, nothing but dull anger looking back at her.

“You already knew about his ties?” she asked.

“Yes, I knew.” Roremar sighed, exasperated. The sound crushed Emmeline, but the wall between them stood firm. “I’ve known Desmond is tied to both Arenothos and Aevollon for years. That he’s been blessed with two incredibly strong Fate ties when it’s so rare. Beyond the fact that he’s one of the people I trust most in the world, it’s why I followed him unquestioningly on Alvan even though he hasn’t been there in years.”

“So you stood there and listened to the Storytellers imply that the murderer was acting in defense of those two specific Fates, and yet you thought nothing of it?” Emmeline’s hand fisted so tightly around her dagger, she nearly cut herself on one of the curved blades. Her boots dug into the sand as she fought to make sense of this. “You listened to me hypothesize that this murderer was a fanatic of Arenothos and Aevollon, hunting women tied to Anphrosia for revenge for her dalliances, and you never once questioned him?”

“No, I didn’t question him!” Roremar snapped, lurching forward as if he was about to storm toward her but had to stop himself. Emmeline’s chest ached at the distance, but too many threads of trust had been cut, patience and respect with them. “How could you? He’s practically my brother, Emmeline! If you care about me at all—know me at all—you’d know this can’t be true.”

Her throat thickened. She’d never admitted she cared for him, but perhaps actions spoke louder than words. She couldn’t deny it was true. On some level, she had grown to care for this reckless warrior who’d infuriated her at the start, but now, that thread was cut, too.

“Caring about you has nothing to do with his actions, Roremar! He’s lying to you!”

“He wouldn’t⁠—”

“She’s right.” Desmond’s voice was the strike of a hammer on steel.

Roremar whipped toward him, and Emmeline could practically see his facade crumbling into a million pieces. See him trying to collect them all, to make sense of those two words before he shattered. The sand beneath their boots, that’s what he would become. What they’d done to him.

“Not about me being the murderer,” Desmond went on. Emmeline felt as if she was hovering over the edge of a cliff. “I haven’t killed anyone, but every fact Emmeline stated is correct.” Roremar stiffened as Desmond prowled toward her, fury lining his features.

An Angel of Vengeance stood before her, a Fate of Destruction and Mayhem, born of Valyrie herself. Her mind flitted back to the reading of the Starsearcher Angel, when she had asked about Desmond. The oil spill, the forge, the bones.

Bones as brushes and arrows tipped in gold, his secrets are blessed and abundant.

They had all but told her he was aligned to Arenothos and Aevollon with those symbols, an Angelblessed warrior, if only she’d understood.

Emmeline swallowed the chilled fear lining her throat as Desmond addressed her, “You are much more impressive than I originally expected. I thought you’d be some shy scholar or condescending tutor, driving Roremar on frivolous hunts around Lyra. I saw his fascination with you the moment he first spoke of you, but I didn’t think there was much more to it. Still, I wondered—still do—why Aldryn chose you.” His eyes dripped over her black leathers, feeling like a threat as they peeled apart her defenses. Emmeline’s heart thundered, begging not to be seen. “There is clearly much more to you than any of us think.”

Taking a step back, Desmond turned toward Roremar. “Your little Huntress has all the pieces, Rore—and she’s smart for that because I covered my tracks well—but she drew the wrong conclusion.”

“What do you mean?” Emmeline snapped, determined not to falter before them.

No.

That couldn’t be true. It had to be Desmond. Not only because of all the evidence she’d gathered, but because in accusing him, she’d so viciously driven a blade between herself and Roremar.

The wall between them was forged by the Angels and welded by betrayal. On this side of it, a familiar echo of loneliness howled through her—one she hadn’t realized she was beginning to soothe.

Perhaps she was always destined to be lonely after all.

“What’s the right conclusion?” Roremar asked.

“I was on the cliffs that night,” Desmond began. “When you were out of your mind from drugs and whiskey, practically falling asleep in your chair, I let you believe I was sneaking off with that woman.”

“Why did you go to the cliffs? Why lie to me about it?” Roremar asked, voice stretched tight with hurt, but the sting couldn’t reach Emmeline across the wall. It wasn’t hers to feel anymore.

“I went to the cliffs to meet with someone to discuss transporting ink onto Lyra.”

“Ink?” Roremar asked.